Two more letters today, the one week anniversary of his arrival in France.
He told both Pips and his mother about his experience the day before, taking a working party up to within 100 yards of the front line, to work on a damaged communications trench – ‘horribly dirty work in about 9 inches of sticky liquid clay’ – but his men had stayed cheery nonetheless. He was less happy, however, especially when the Germans sent over some trench mortar shells (‘Minenwerfer’, or ‘Minnies’), ‘some of which fell close enough to frighten me’. Later, when they were heading back to base, a shell came down about 50 yards ahead of them – the first time he had actually seen a shell burst on the ground. The most difficult part, he found, was the whistling sound made by the shell as it came nearer and nearer, never knowing where it might land.
By Permission of the Surrey History Centre. Ref: 2332/1/1/2/87
He told his father the pattern of his day while in Reserve: up at 7:00; breakfast at 8:30; then censoring letters, followed by platoon inspection. Thereafter he was largely free for the day, unless he was taking out a working party, or had odd little jobs to do (such as taking a message to neighbouring Regiments). When he was free of work he would write letters or read – Marcus Aurelius and Walter Scott’s Old Mortality at that point, but he would be happy if someone would send him something by Carlyle (Past & Present, perhaps, or Sartor Resartus). After lunch, he would take a nap or read some more until tea at 4:30, and then chat with the other officers in the Mess until 7:00. Thereafter, more reading, followed by dinner at 8:00. Still, though, he felt sometimes that he might prefer to be in the ranks, since their hardships were merely physical, not mental like an officer’s.
The shelling was not especially heavy, and was mainly from the British side, although the Germans tended to respond with their Minnies and grenades. He was sure the British held the upper hand, though – for the Germans (‘or “Fritz” as the soldiers call them’) replied very feebly to the British bombardments. He did not feel at all ‘fed up’: ‘I simply feel we have all been set a task which has got to be carried through and which will probably be very unpleasant – but it has got to end like everything else.’ He consoled himself with algebra: if 6 shells went over, there would only be x-6 left to the end of the war; so when x shells had been fired the war would end. This is how he cheered himself up when shell after shell whistled overhead. But, as he told his mother, he still looked forward to ‘the glorious time when the beastly war is over, and we have our farm at Oxshott or elsewhere, as we certainly will, if we possibly can.’
He never did buy the farm in Oxshott, but the proceeds from Journey’s End enabled him to buy a house with a splendid garden in Esher (‘Rosebriars’), and, later, a farm in Dorset, in a beautiful location, high on the cliffs at Eype, overlooking the sea.
[Next letter: 7 October]
